


And You Are The Roots That Sleep Beneath My Feet

by andyouknowitis



Series: The 'And...' Series [4]
Category: One Direction, One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:16:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andyouknowitis/pseuds/andyouknowitis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Louis?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Mmmm?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Are you gonna fuck me anytime soon, or are you just gonna talk me to death?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His mouth quirks at that. “Are those my only options?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A look then. Just a look, and he's undone. And all he wants is to wrap him up and hold him close, and make him come, and keep him safe. To let him feel. He knows he's okay for it, they'd half planned on last night before a nip too much tequila put paid to wandering hands, but he raises an enquiring brow anyway, and slips his right arm beneath him, to tug him closer, until Harry's lying across him, looking down at him, and fuck if that smile of his doesn't make him feel like the luckiest bastard on Earth. He meets it with one of his own, words ready as his heart is. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Go on, then.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	And You Are The Roots That Sleep Beneath My Feet

It holds steady.

This life doesn't lend itself to foundations. Moving, always moving. Air and water and land. Tiny corners of home are made and held to with comfort. A bunk on a bus. Meals made that taste familiar. Shared shower gel and clothes. And people. There are many, but there are those who have climbed with them, and those that have become friends. A new kind of family.

They'll take a few days now before they take all this home again. A few days together and a few days apart. Taking it back to the homes they came from. Parents and friends, and lives and pride in how far they've come. They need these different days. With other people, other places. They've learned with time, and growing up, with fractious moments, that it's not just distance, but the time to be alone, and the time to spend with others, just doing other things, that helps them be their best. When you grow up within a life, built on long hours, living, working, travelling side by side, you learn, and you know when you have to hold on, and when you have to let go.

And it doesn't mean he doesn't miss him when they're apart. He's long since learned that he sleeps much better with him there. Certainly he eats better. He knows he'll tell him, as he always does, that he shouldn't just subsist on cereal, and he doesn't do it on purpose, but he loves that he tells him anyway. He loves to hear new stories of things seen and friends made. Loves that he'll try to tell them in a funny way, and that he'll laugh regardless, because he knows what he's trying to say even when he fails. Loves that every time he'll bring him something, just something, that says he thought of him too. Sometimes they try and do the thing where they don't talk, or text, or Facetime, or whatever, just to see if they can. They rarely make it past a day, but they've made it a game anyway, to see who cracks first and why. It keeps them steady. This mix of the familiar and the new.

These past couple of weeks have felt like a living memory. It feels like the beginning again, the five of them, and cameras, and brand new things and places. And yet at the same time, it's felt like looking back at the road that brought them here, knowing where they've been, and thinking on where they could yet go. Beyond the music, there's been laughter; sun and heat and late nights. Old friends met with new. Shots at the bar and snapshots on a phone. All the work to get here, all the obligations, all the compromises, all the tough times and the tears, have come to this. This life. A life of doing what he loves. He smiles then, amused. And who he loves.

He's asleep still. His face mashed into the pillow, long limbs curled around the edge of his side of the duvet, which now lays at his waist, so his back is bared to him. His eyes follow the indentations along his spine. He tells himself to get a grip even as he thinks _I love the shape of your bones. Love the shape of you._

There'd been a time when honesty fell out of his mouth like leaves from a tree. No help for it, because this was nature. Blinding blossoms gazed on in the heat of a new summer, swept away in those autumn leaves, the fall started before he knew it had begun. He's learned to be more circumspect, what a word, if only before those who are listening to just one kind of birdsong, those who can't see the wood for the trees.

 _Don't you see? Can't you see this tree of seasons, don't you see that it's alive?_ Maybe they see it, but don't know what they're seeing. They see a tree. A sapling, only able to grow in one way, caged in restrictions, only supposed to grow in the way it's been directed. Decorated for their amusement. They don't see where the tree has sought the light and reached for the Sun. They miss the small deviations of growth, over time, the strength within. Perhaps it's invisible to the naked eye, just another in a row of so many made the same, so it's just a tree, affected only by the changing elements around it, all the rain and hail and snow and frost that life will throw at it. They see a tree, but ignore the essence that keeps it strong, this living thing, flourishing, come what may.

Maybe he too has had to adapt to the environment around him, a necessity to survive, but he loves no less than he once did. He loves more. So much more. And he says it in all the ways he can. Because that truth inside his heart still comes out, like the whisper of breeze through branches, in words and touch and looks. In pictures drawn upon his skin. He arranges words, every single day, that speak it. And they are sung.

He shifts closer then. Draws the back of his hand along sleep-warmed skin, knuckles skimmed down towards his waist. Unfolds his fingers until they're splayed over his left hip, palm met with leaves sketched out in ink. He stirs against his touch then. A quiet murmur against the early morning air, as his own hand drifts down to settle over his, fingers laced together, as he speaks softly.

“Feeling me up in my sleep again?”

“Is it a penis wrapped around your face, Harry?”

He feels the soft laugh against him, as he curls closer to his back. “No.” A pause as he draws their linked fingers down to the warm, full length of him. “But that could be arranged.”

A soft click of his tongue at him then. “Good thing I took you on isn't it? You'd never make it out there with lines like that.”

“Hey.” Harry gives a small sigh as their calves brush together, when he trails his toes across his ankle. “Nice. And don't roll your eyes at me. I can feel you doing it.”

“If that's all you can feel I'm not doing it right.”

“And that's not a line?”

“You think?”

“I think maybe I could do this perfectly well on my own.”

“Do you know, I think your cock disagrees with you. But you go right ahead.”

He withdraws his hand then. Shifts back to his side of the bed, hands behind his head as he stares at the ceiling.

A beat of silence before a low groan rents the air again. “Get back here.”

“You've got _perfectly_ good hands, Harry. Big. Large some would say. Quite capable.”

“Louis.”

“What, am I here just to service you?” A shift of his hands down to his own bare chest, linked across his stomach now. “Maybe I should put in a call for that waiter who was eyeing you up last night. I think he'd meet your needs. Put it down as room service.”

He feels the pillow dip as Harry settles himself beside him again. A quiet whisper. “Yeah, but lube from the mini-bar is so expensive.”

He laughs aloud then. “Nice. Okay you've earned yourself five minutes of my hands. Use them wisely.”

A brush of lips on his jawline. “Just five?”

“You know what I can do with five minutes, Harry.”

“What if I need longer?”

“Maybe I'll grant you an extension.”

He hears a snort and feels him spasm against his shoulder, as a genuine giggle bubbles up, and his head drops back onto the pillow next to him. He loves this. Loves making him laugh. Really laugh. From his gut, from that strong core within him. And then words, an echo of his own thoughts, from that mouth. “God, I just love you.”

“I know. But don't call me God. So formal.”

“I'm not calling you Thor again.”

“And here I thought you liked my hammer.”

“Louis?”

“Mmmm?”

“Are you gonna fuck me anytime soon, or are you just gonna talk me to death?”

His mouth quirks at that. “Are those my only options?”

A look then. Just a look, and he's undone. And all he wants is to wrap him up and hold him close, and make him come, and keep him safe. To let him feel. He knows he's okay for it, they'd half planned on last night before a nip too much tequila put paid to wandering hands, but he raises an enquiring brow anyway, and slips his right arm beneath him, to tug him closer, until Harry's lying across him, looking down at him, and fuck if that smile of his doesn't make him feel like the luckiest bastard on Earth. He meets it with one of his own, words ready as his heart is.

“Go on, then.”

He takes his time, lets his hand drift up to his nape, his fingers a catch and release in those curls, until they settle against his skin, drawing him down until their lips are met. Just small kisses. Head angled, slow brushes skirted along his jaw, along the edges of his mouth, lower lip drawn softly between his own, with just a small scrape of his teeth, before his tongue brushes against his. Then breathing in the smell that's just him along his neck, breathing deeply, before drawing on the skin there. He brings his other hand up to the base of his spine, a long slow trail up warm muscles and strong bones, his brow furrowing a little as he feels just a subtle flicker of tension against his touch. He shifts back a little, a question in his eyes and voice. “Is it your back again?”

Harry's mouth moves to below his left ear then, shaking his head, with a murmur of “S'nothing. Don't stop” against his skin. He lets him have the taste of him, before bringing his hand against his chest between them, moving him backwards slowly, until they're lying side by side. He takes the kisses deeper then, matching them to the soft strokes he makes along Harry's back, just small soothing motions, a press of his fingertips, until he feels his sighs against his mouth, just little moans of satisfaction, that speak of a different type of pleasure, and he knows he's making it better. Making him better. He draws back then, with a single whispered word. “Okay?”

A nod of comfort dazed eyes, the green of early summer, matched with a hazy smile, “Mmmm.”

“Good.” He shifts up to his knees beside him then, duvet pooling at his hips, and he pushes it away, down towards the end of the bed, so it's just them; clean sheets and bare skin. Tapping the side of Harry's right thigh lightly with a soft murmur of “Turn over” as he grabs a pillow to place under his hips, hands focused and sure as he arranges it just so, bringing it down a little closer, before he places his hands either side of his pelvis, easing him back towards him a little until he's sure he's comfortable. He moves to place Harry's legs a little wider, so he can slip between them, and their thighs brush and meet, as he slides down the sheets and settles back onto his heels.

He loves doing this for him. It took a while before they tried it at first, young and untried and new to asking for what they wanted, but like everything else with them, as ever, when the time came, it seemed to happen so naturally. There's something so primal, and intimate, and elemental about it. _And Harry loves it._ He grins before moving down. Oh, he really does.

He lets his tongue pass over the dips at the base of his spine before drawing it down, and then back up again slowly, almost lazily, taking his time. Wet, noisy kisses met with light skims of his lips. He lets his hands sit loosely on the outside of Harry's thighs, the insides of his forearms resting against them, and he can already feel him tremble and tense below him, as he works his way across toned muscle and soft skin. Little nips now, and the merest scrape of his nails against that sensitive spot on the left side of his arse that always make him hiss with pleasure and shift away for a second, even as he moves back closer again, eager to feel the heat of his breath on him once more. He moves his hands up then, massaging small circles with his thumbs, before spreading him wider so he can press deeper kisses there, working his tongue a little further, adding his fingers to ease him into it, tasting him, stretching him, connecting with him, a little more each time. He can feel it as the pitch of Harry's breathing changes, as those small whimpers escaping his throat increase in frequency, his left hand shooting out blindly behind him, so he can grip his shoulder to urge him on.

It's such a fucking turn-on, the way he moans in response to the play of his mouth and lips and tongue against such sensitive skin. That's he so caught up in it that he can't talk, just make those sounds. _So sexy. So fucking hot._ It makes him feel hard and humbled all at once. That he gets to be the one to hear him like this. To see and feel him like this. That he trusts him with everything he is. Trusts him to make him feel good, and to make him feel safe. To take him where he wants to go. That he lets him go there with him.

He reaches round to skim his hand across his stomach, then trails a finger around and into his belly button, just because he knows he likes it. Small swirls of his middle finger, and he can feel the muscles in his stomach tense against the inside of his wrist. He moves his mouth up to kiss his lower back, as he makes love words against his skin. It's not long before Harry moves his own hand from where he's been gripping the bed sheet, down to meet the hand against his navel, before moving it down to his cock, tightening his grip there, words tumbled from his mouth, shaky and sexy as. He moves up and back, to grind against him, making him hard as fuck, all the feel and heat and words of him. “Oh fuck...fuck...LouLouisLou...you're so fucking good at that..so..you make me so hard..so..you've got to...I fucking love your mouth, I love you, love you, I need you in me now..take me please..fuck me. Fuck me now.”

“I know baby, I know.” He presses kisses up his spine as he moves back up, nuzzling against the spot between his shoulder blades, as he draws Harry's left hand back up to lie near his shoulder as he goes. “Pass me the lube, hun.”

A groan as his fingers flail out to the night stand and miss completely, sending the tube sailing to the ground. “Fuck. I'm ready. Just go. Just do it.”

He chuckles against him at that. “Behave yourself, Styles.” He angles himself down off the edge of the bed, delicious friction as he presses into him, making Harry groan at the contact. With a stretch of his arm, he just about makes the tube and brings it back with him, flicking it open, already wetting his palms and himself as he moves. Slipping damp fingers in, circling. “There we go.”

“Hurry.”

“Jesus. Feisty today aren't you?”

Harry's right hand is already gripping the back of his thigh pulling him closer, he's all but panting as his forehead meets the bed and his spines dips, as he pushes back against him again, rocking on his knees. His brain stutters for a minute, as it nearly always does when he sees him get so riled up like this. _Fuck. You have no idea how sexy you are. And you want me inside you. Me._ He draws a breath, to keep himself from going, as he grips his hips and steadies him, keeps him still, drawing his palms up his ribs and back again. He could all but come right now, caught up in the denial and the urge to lose control. He takes a breath and focuses on doing what he needs to do, and not just what he wants, because he's going to make this good for him. Because he knows just what he needs. He positions himself, sliding the tip of his cock around him, just once, before easing himself in, the merest inch, with a murmur on his tongue. “Patience, love.”

A hiss of breath. “Fuck patience.”

He licks his way up towards his neck, bringing his right arm around his chest, his left hand into his hair as he tugs on it, just a little, bringing his head back so he can lick wetly around his right ear. “I'd rather fuck you.”

It's a slick slide, with just enough heat behind his hips to make them both gasp, as it all but steals his breath. He's caught inside his gravity and he never wants to leave. But he has to move. He feels so fucking good around him, so good, and he knows from the grip of Harry's fingers against him that he feels it too. That this is them, just them. So right. And his mind is full of heat and words. _I could fuck you forever. Love you. Love you. Love you. So much._

Their love has changed, as they have, and it's so much better. He remembers the first time, so scared of getting this right for him, and days and weeks and months of frantic hands and full hearts, to the now, where it's a steady love, their love. Theirs is the ease of long practice; he knows just how to rotate his hips, what angle feels good for him, where to apply just a little pressure, just as Harry knows how to relax into it, and when to urge him on, asking for what he wants, taking him with him. He works his hips now, half focus, half want, as he tweaks a nipple, his voice a breathy whisper at Harry's ear. “That's what you want isn't it? Right there. Is that good? Can you take more? Do you want more?”

“Yes, Yes. Oh God, Louis. Fuck. Fuck. Do it harder.”

He complies. Lets them both have the moment. Slick and hot and sweaty, and tangled grunts and gasps and breathing. They tumble forwards as Harry reaches an arm back around his neck, to pull him to, so he can kiss him. Clashed tongues and saliva, and moans into his mouth. “Don't stop, don't stop.”

“As if.”

He finds his hands, and melds their fingers together as he moves, and he can feel the friction of the sheets against his knees, not a fraction of space between their skin, as he grinds into him, snaps his hips back again and again and again. His mouth is making words even as he thinks them. “Oh fuck, oh God Harry..Harry..you're so fucking beautiful..so much..so much..let me touch you baby..let me make you come...” _Come for me so I can come for you._ Harry bucks back against him a little, as he brings their joined hands to his cock once again, slipped beneath the right side of his hips, and then he can feel him against his palm, warm and sure and so ready, and he slows the pace again, works his hand against him. “Come on, baby, come on. So close. So good.”

Harry's rasp of response threatens to pull him over the edge, like a bird on the highest branch, about to catch the breeze and fly. “Faster baby, Louis, please. Come with me, come with me.” He can't deny him, doesn't want to. He can barely draw breath. Their fingers untangle and Harry's moving his free hand down to grip his backside, and he slides his fingers up to grip his bicep in turn, both of them close to losing it. He just wants him to come first, then he can go. Harry's moans are muted as he presses the side of his face into the mattress, and then he's feeling him coming hard against his fingers, clenching around him so tightly that he feels dizzy, and he feels his stomach muscles tighten in response. Harry's soft, muffled sigh of “Love you. I love you.” is all it takes for him to breathe again.

Love meets the air and filters through met skin like oxygen, breathed out and taken in, made life again. He feels like he's held fast to the Earth, rooted to this atmosphere, steady and strong, as life spins them through all the seconds, minutes and hours of all their nights and days. Like a lifeforce beneath his fingertips, like bare grass against his feet, soil smudged into his skin, and he's staring up, as he hurtles along a road, and the sunlight is just beginning to filter through the leaves held to branches, that play on the breeze as they skirt the skyline. It's beautiful and light and green as the Earth meets the Sun, faster and faster, those lights above his eyes, until the images meld and blur into one.

*

He's sprawled over his form, an able blanket, worn like love across his shoulders. His shoulders, so much broader now, than when they started, always steady and strong. He can feel his breathing beneath him, almost hear the hum of his skin against his ear.

If someone asked to describe how a love like theirs happened, what it was like, he'd find it hard to explain. Like someone asking what water tastes like. It's just necessary. Essential. All he knows is that he could no more deny it than the urge to breath. There he was, and so it happened. He just knew not to fear it. He has so much love for the other three, nothing like where they are, how high they've reached, could have been done without any of them, but with Harry, he just knew. He was determined, always so determined to make it, to make something of himself. He would have made it somehow. In some small way. But it wouldn't be the same without him. He wouldn't be the same without him.

Some might say he's living a rootless life, but he knows better. He's made a home with not a place, but a person. The seeds sown long ago, late night into early mornings at the bungalow, where they would talk, just talk all night, in hushed whispers, so as not to wake the world around them. He's the one who keeps his feet on the ground, and he wants to grow old with him, in the way of trees that are evergreen.

He brushes his lips across his nape then, as he finally lifts his head. Harry mumbles something in response that he can't quite make out. As he shifts a little to disentangle them, Harry reaches back to brush his thigh lightly, and he knows that he wants him to stay put a moment longer. He folds his arms across his back then and rests his chin there, his tone lightly teasing. “Speak up, H.”

Harry lifts his head, and he can smell his hair, sweat and shampoo mingled in, as he speaks again. “I said, nice extension.”

He can't stop the laugh that bubbles up, dropping his own head onto his arms as it rolls through him. He shakes his head as he pulls himself up to his knees giving him a light tap on the arse before moving away. “Thanks. You want the shower first?”

He watches as Harry hauls himself up with a groan of satisfaction and stretches. Rolling his shoulders, a knowing smile on his face as he walks towards the bathroom. “Go have your smoke, Lou.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn't say anything as his eyes follow him from view, before he pulls on some shorts and heads for the balcony. He knows he'll quit sometime, when everything's a bit less intense, because he knows he doesn't really like it. But he takes his flaws with the rest of him, and he loves him for it.

His eyes drift out to the horizon as he draws in a pull, the dawn of another day on them, their last here before moving on. No one can yet know tomorrow, but they can know today will take them there, and he thinks maybe he'll write that down. He doesn't know how long they'll have. All he knows is that they'll get no more or less than everyone does. A lifetime. Their lifetime.

His mind catches on words remembered of a song he knows he'll sing for him one day. Piano chords learned and lived with. He smiles then, and hums softly to himself, and in his mind there are songs that promise a tomorrow.

_And my whole heart will be yours forever, this is a beautiful start to a lifelong love letter._

*

**Author's Note:**

> This began life, like them all, in that art class I was working in. Set in Brazil, on the morning of their last day of the South American tour, May 11th 2014, it’s heavily laced with my love for Sara Bareilles (the last line is a reference to her song 'I Choose You'), and my wondering what it would be like to live in Louis’ head for a while. I find him so multi-faceted and endlessly fascinating, that I think I could never truly do him justice, but nonetheless here I found myself with words again. I basically headcanon that 'No Control' was just a little seed in Louis' head here...and well...you know.
> 
> 'Strong' is present here thematically, as is the theme of having your own kind of anchor, both as a support and a way to stay steady through it all. There’s a little subversion of the Marina and the Diamonds song 'Rootless', and being me, there is the rather whimsical idea that if Harry is of the Earth and Louis is the Sun, they combine somehow to make stars, and a love that lives long after all the rest is gone.


End file.
